


Destruction

by TheKatlocker (TheKat79)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Sherlock Holmes, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 20:05:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18880294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKat79/pseuds/TheKatlocker
Summary: What happened after Sherlock saved John from the well at Musgrave Hall?Let's find out.





	Destruction

“How are you feeling?” Sherlock asked carefully, taking in his best friend, wrapped in a grey blanket, with his hair slicked back and still wet from the well he almost drowned in mere minutes ago.  
“Yeah, bit... dunked.” John tried to downplay it with a lopsided smile, but Sherlock saw that he was rattled from the events of the day. 

Sherlock was at a loss of what to do. The adrenaline, that had held him upright during the past hours, slowly left his system and he already felt the exhaustion taking over. He looked at the back door of the police car where his sister was sitting stock-still behind barred windows, staring into thin air as if she was the loneliest person in the world and his heart ached in his chest. He watched Lestrade walking over to his car, chatting silently to one of the young officers with a tight lipped smile that didn't reach his eyes. Sherlock dropped his gaze to the muddy ground beneath his feet, buried both hands in his coat pockets and took a deep, shaky breath, recalling what would await him back at Baker Street.  
He couldn't go back to his destroyed home all by himself after everything that had happened. He didn't want to be alone right now.  
He glanced sideways at John, looking for any clues about what John was thinking and braced himself for what he was going to offer. It couldn't hurt to ask. They were best friends after all and despite everything. 

”John, erm...,“ Sherlock cleared his throat, afraid that John might reject his offer. ”You could come to Baker Street for the night, if you wanted.... sleep in your old room, get your head clear after... this.” Sherlock made a vague gesture in the general direction of the old family mansion with his hand buried in his coat pocket.  
“The flat is destroyed, isn't it?” John frowned.  
“Mainly just the living room, the bedrooms and the bathroom are inhabitable... mostly. Just a bit... smoked,” Sherlock said, brows wrinkling in uncertainty.  
John looked at him for long seconds before he answered with a slight frown.  
“Or you could come to my place...”  
Sherlock dropped his gaze to the floor. The idea of visiting John's flat brought up memories he prefered not to revisit. Memories of a time when he had been refused admission and had been terrified that he might have destroyed their friendship irrevocably.  
“I'd rather not...,” Sherlock answered silently, gazing up through his lashes with his heart in his throat.  
He prayed to a God he didn't believe in that he hadn't just destroyed what was left of the fragile relationship they led since Mary's death.  
John pursed his lips, holding up his head a little higher. He scanned every inch of Sherlock's face, clearly pondering his options. It made Sherlock's chest tighten and he started to feel nauseous.  
Sherlock clenched both hands into fists, burying them even deeper in his coat pockets. His heart was beating so loud in his chest he was certain that John must be able to hear it over the short distance that separated them.  
But then John's features softened and Sherlock could see the exact moment when he made up his mind. John's beautiful eyes, almost black in the dim light of dusk and the flickering lights from the police cars around them, went soft around the edges, lips curving into a gentle smile, posture loosening in obvious relief.  
“Baker Street it is then,” John answered with a strange look on his face and Sherlock's chest unclenched, just a bit. 

“Oi Sherlock, John?” Greg was calling from a distance, startling Sherlock out of his thoughts. He hoped John hadn't seen him flinch.  
“Officer Benson over there can give you two a ride home.” He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb to a young policeman standing beside a patrol car.  
“Great, thanks Greg,” John nodded. 

They stood there for a bit longer, watching the car with Eurus eventually disappear into the darkness, followed by the rest of the police squad and all of a sudden there was silence and darkness all around them. The only light that was left were the headlights of the police car that was waiting for them in a short distance.  
Sherlock took a last long look at his childhood home, now barely visible in the darkness, before he closed his eyes. He tried to remember better times, when he had been a little boy with a best friend named Victor. When it had felt like the world belonged to them alone. When anything and everything seemed possible out of sheer willpower. A time when he hadn't felt so utterly and hopelessly alone.  
Sherlock tried to get all the emotions that had come to the surface today back down into the voids of his mind palace where they belonged. Tried to lock them up behind the thick walls of Musgrave Hall. Tried to drown them in the well where Victor had died as an innocent child. Where John had almost followed him tonight.  
Sherlock swallowed hard, took a deep breath, exhaled. He felt his hands starting to tremble in his coat pockets, felt the air growing thick around him. He couldn't breath properly anymore, his ribs feeling too tight, too restraining for his lungs. He opened his eyes to get a grip on himself, tried to find confidence in the here and now and couldn't. He couldn't concentrate, couldn't breathe properly, couldn't clear his mind.  
But then there was a firm hand on his upper arm and a his name whispered in a painfully familiar voice, snapping him out of his head and thus bringing him back to the present. Sherlock's eyes focused on two dark blue ones staring straight back at him in concern.  
He wasn't alone. Not anymore.  
John Watson was by his side, grounding him in the here and now and the tension in Sherlock's body subsided, albeit slowly. He took a deep, shaky breath and tried for a tight lipped smile that didn't reach his eyes.  
John gave his upper arm a little squeeze, but didn't let go. He nodded in the direction of the patrol car, where the young officer was waiting patiently with his hands in the pockets of his trousers.  
“Let's go home,” John said with a soft smile. 

 

They spent the ride home in utter silence. The young officer glanced at them every now and then through the rear view mirror, but he didn't dare say a word and John and Sherlock didn't offer any conversation until they pulled up in front of 221b Baker Street late at night.  
“Are you sure that you want to spend the night in there?” the young man asked with a concerned look up at the demolished facade.  
The shattered windows of 221b were patched-up with wooden boards as good as possible, parts of the brickwork were destroyed and the red awning of Speedy's Cafe was singed. All in all, the house didn't look exactly inviting.  
“It's fine,” Sherlock said and left the car, holding the door open for John to climb out after him.  
“Thank you for the ride,” John said as a farewell before Sherlock heard the car drive away somewhere behind him. 

They stood in front of the house side by side with their shoulders almost touching, looking up at the patched up windows. The city was utterly silent around them, as if it was aware that this moment was not to be disturbed.  
“You sure?” John asked without taking his eyes off the patched up windows.  
“Yes,” Sherlock answered silently. “You?”  
He turned to John, anxiously awaiting his response, but John just grinned.  
“I've invaded Afghanistan, I've slept in worse places.”  
Sherlock chuckled in relief and this time the smile on his lips did reach his eyes.  
“Well then...,” he pulled the keys out of his coat pocket, holding them up for John to see, before he walked over to let them in. 

They climbed the stairs in joint silence, Sherlock leading, John on his heels, while the smell of smoke in the air grew heavier with each step. The door to the living room, or what was left of it, was wide open, revealing the destruction behind it. All the surfaces in the room were either singed or black from soot.  
There were books and all sorts of things scattered all over the floor. Sherlock's chair was toppled over, John's completely destroyed, together with the rest of the furniture in the living room.  
Sherlock glanced at John, who hadn't been living in 221b for years now, but the pain in his eyes was just as tangible as Sherlock's own. This was their home, their haven, despite everything and it hurt them both to see it in this state.  
They both took a deep breath and stepped further inside, revealing the rest of the flat. The glass in the door to the kitchen was shattered, the door singed around the edges, but the kitchen itself was relatively intact.

“Do you mind if I take a quick shower?” John asked, still draped in the grey blanket and now visibly shivering. He must be ice cold after being in his wet clothes for so long.  
“I'll go get you a towel and some clothes to change,” Sherlock said.  
He walked down the corridor to his bedroom that still smelled faintly of smoke and found an old t-shirt, his only tracksuit trousers and a towel and went back to the kitchen to hand them over. John took them thankful smile and disappeared in the bathroom, door closing behind him with a thud. 

Sherlock was at a loss of what to do. It didn't make any sense to start clearing up the flat in the middle of the night so he just stood there for a long time, staring at what was left from his home. He took a few steps into the living room, picked up the bison skull from the floor and stared at it in disbelief.  
How did it all go so wrong? They could have all died when that bomb blew up in the middle of his living room.  
He looked at the boarded up windows where motes of dust swirled in the dim light that came in from the street lamps through gaps between the boards and shook his head in disbelief. It was a bit chilly in the room but he didn't have the strength to make a fire in the mantle right now, so he put the bison skull back down on the floor and picked up a random book instead that was lying face down right in front of his feet.  
Sherlock brushed the soot from the mainly unharmed book and stared at the title, 'forbidden drugs'. He gripped the book hard until his knuckles turned white, eyes fixed on the red cover with its white letters that looked so innocent, yet formed words that were so dangerous. He put the book back into one of the shelves that had survived the bomb and kept glaring at its red spine, reading the letters over and over again.  
If John wouldn't be here right now would he go back to the drugs? Would he give in to the temptation he knew would be able to dull the pain, at least for a little while? Or would he be able to resist?  
He honestly didn't know and he was terrified to find out.  
Sherlock stood there and stared at the book, mind racing, until he heard the bathroom door open. He heard John's footsteps in the corridor and still couldn't tear his eyes away from those two words. Sherlock stared at them until John stepped right beside him, following Sherlock's gaze and inhaled audibly. John grabbed Sherlock's upper arm, pressing lightly, but insistently, but he didn't say a word. John just stood there with him, solid as a rock and Sherlock's racing thoughts slowly came to a halt. He glanced at John sideways, dipped his head in defeat and John's lips curved upwards into a little smile. 

“Tea?” John finally asked and Sherlock shook his head. He could have already done that while John was in the bathroom.  
“I'll do it,” Sherlock said hastily, starting to sprint into action, but John stopped him with a squeeze of his hand, that was still gripping Sherlock's upper arm.  
“Go get rid of your coat and sit down, I'll make tea,” he said, voice oddly soft.  
Sherlock looked at John thankfully and suddenly couldn't hold back a grin. John looked ridiculous in his own, too large clothes. John understood immediately, slapping him on the upper arm.  
“Not my fault you're such a lanky git,” he retorted drily. They both chuckled and suddenly all the tension that had been sitting between them since they entered the flat vanished. 

Sherlock got rid of his coat and jacket and went back to the living room to inspect the mantle and the chimney. Since it looked rather intact he started a fire, to get a bit of the chill out of the room.  
John made tea, like he had done so many times in the past and it all seemed rather familiar, minus the singed edges and smokey scent in the air. For just a few seconds it felt as if the last couple of years had never happened. As if they hadn't become so remote from each other since Sherlock had disappeared to fight Moriarty's web. As if they were still young and full of post case adrenaline, laughing the tension away to settle down into a quiet evening with takeaway and bad telly.  
Sherlock shook his head to clear it from those unwanted thoughts that only ever made him sad nowadays and sat down at the kitchen table opposite John, hands cautiously closing around a steaming mug of tea in front of him. 

“So, that was your sister then...” John stated carefully, with a slight frown on his expressive face.  
“Apparently yes,” Sherlock huffed, lips pressed into a tight line.  
“And here I thought I had seen everything the Holmes siblings were capable of...,” John chuckled.  
Sherlock's lips curved into a tight smile and suddenly everything that had happened during the last few hours rushed back into his mind full force. He clenched his hands around the mug in front of him, barely noticing the too hot porcelain that nearly burned his fingertips. The breath in his lungs escaped in a rush and he whispered just one word.  
"John."  
John could have died today.  
Sherlock could have lost a best friend for the second time in his life and the implication of it suddenly hit him like a train. He could have ended up utterly alone, yet again.  
Without John.  
Without the one person he loved more than anything else in this world. John, who was still here after everything he had lost, after everything Sherlock had done to him. John, who still came running every time Sherlock called, despite everything they've been through. Or maybe just because? 

Sherlock's ears started ringing, his hands were shaking, he couldn't breath, couldn't think properly for the second time that night. He let go of his mug and clenched both hands in his curls instead, trying to breath normally, trying to calm himself, trying to get himself back under control. 

And then suddenly John was right beside him.  
“Sherlock... hey...”  
Both of John's hands closed around Sherlock's forearms, pulling his hands carefully out of his hair.  
“You could have died, John,” Sherlock choked.  
His voice sounded like pure desperation to his own ears.  
“Yeah, but I haven't. I'm here. You saved me.”  
“But what if I hadn't?” Sherlock looked at John with eyes wide in dismay, barely able to hold back the tears that formed behind his eyes, threatening to spill over any second now.  
John pulled the chair next to Sherlock closer with one foot, settling down right next to him.  
“I didn't doubt you for a second,” John told him, eyes intense. John placed his hand on top of Sherlock's shaking ones on the table, squeezing lightly.  
Sherlock grabbed John's hand with both of his own and pulled it towards his chest. He pressed it against his breastbone, to feel John's presence, to calm himself, but the breathing didn't get any easier.  
“I can't do that any longer, John,” Sherlock whispered into the air that felt like it was lacking oxygen.  
“Do what?” John asked carefully, squeezing Sherlock's hand.  
“Pretend,” Sherlock breathed.  
He closed his eyes and then there was utter silence, neither of them saying a word for a full minute. Sherlock just sat there with John's hand between his own, pressed against his chest and John let him, not moving a muscle. 

“Pretend what?” John eventually asked in a voice that sounded so uncertain, disbelieving, not at all like John's.  
Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, staring into thin air.  
“Pretend to be a sociopath...,” he took a deep breath, let it go, “pretend that I don't care...,” inhaled again, blinked once, twice.  
“... pretend that you are nothing more than my best friend.”  
Sherlock sat absolutely still, not daring to look at John, trembling hands still holding John's in a tight grip.  
“I knew about that first part,” John said carefully, “and I knew about the second part,” he said and unclenched Sherlock's fingers to pull one trembling hand into his own lap.  
Sherlock dropped his gaze to the table and waited, heart in his throat.  
“But you have to tell me about that last part.”  
John took Sherlock's other hand and turned him around on the chair so that they were facing each other.  
Sherlock looked up through his lashes, lips pressed together almost painful.  
“I could have lost you today,” Sherlock whispered and one single tear escaped at last, rolling down his cheek, leaving a wet trail in its path.  
John squeezed his hands, eyes incredibly soft.  
“Sherlock...”  
“You could have died without knowing how much I care for you, John.”  
John smiled gently.  
“I know you do, Sherlock.”  
“No, I... I mean it's... not just... that...,” he huffed, frustrated with himself.  
Why was this so hard? People were doing this every day, weren't they? Surely it couldn't be so hard to tell his best friend how much he loved him?  
“Not just what?” John asked carefully, eyes piercing into Sherlock's.  
“John, I... I don't want you as my friend... No, I... I mean, of course I do, but... erm...”  
Sherlock lowered his gaze in frustration and what he saw there, all of a sudden, calmed him entirely.  
He saw John's small, strong hands holding his own shaking ones in his lap, never letting go. He saw their knees pressing against each other's without drawing back. He looked up and he saw John leaning forward into his own personal space, eyes soft but intent and suddenly it seemed like the easiest thing in the world. 

“I'm in love with you, John,” Sherlock whispered.  
John exhaled in a rush, pulled Sherlock forward and the next thing Sherlock knew was that John's lips were pressing against his own and they were soft and moving.  
It took Sherlock exactly 3.4 seconds until his brain registered what John was doing and then Sherlock's arms wrapped around John's shoulders, pulling him close and Sherlock was kissing him back and 'oh my God'. And then suddenly Sherlock's brain really registered what was just happening and he drew back with a gasp. 

“John... wha... how...,” Sherlock stuttered, eyes wide in shock.  
“We've almost lost each other too many times, Sherlock. I'm done pretending, too.” John's hand came up to cup Sherlock's cheek, thumb brushing away the trail of the single tear.  
“Done pretending...” Sherlock whispered.  
His brain hadn't really caught up yet.  
John let his hand drop from Sherlock's face to his own lap and Sherlock missed the warmth of it already.  
“That you're not the most important person in my life,“ John said, “that I'm not attracted to you,” he added with a little smirk.  
”That I don't love you,” John whispered, eyes focused on Sherlock's.  
Sherlock was utterly stunned. He stared at John, unable to believe the words he had just heard. The only thing he knew for certain in this very moment was that John was too far away. Way too far. 

“Kiss me again,” Sherlock whispered, voice barely audible.  
John looked at him with soft eyes and just breathed.  
“Please,” Sherlock pleaded.  
“God yes,” John whispered and leaned in to capture Sherlock's lips with his own.  
The kiss was soft and tender, with just a hint of tongues brushing against each other every now and then. For Sherlock it was the most wonderful thing he had ever felt.  
John's hands came up to cup Sherlock's face, both thumbs brushing over his cheekbones and Sherlock just held onto John's shoulders, to not get lost.  
They kissed for long seconds or maybe even hours, John's hands never leaving Sherlock's face, before they both drew back slowly. They stayed only inches apart, eyes closed, foreheads touching, breathing each other in. Sherlock could smell his own shampoo in John's hair from his shower earlier and eventually drew back to open his eyes. John was staring back at him, pupils two black pools in the dim light of the kitchen.  
“Let me take you to bed,” John whispered and Sherlock's heart missed a beat.  
He felt his eyes growing wide in disbelief, heart hammering in his chest and just nodded, ever so slowly.  
John reached out to take Sherlock's hands in his own. He stood up, pulled Sherlock with him and for a few seconds they just stood there, breathing together until John got up onto tiptoes to press a soft kiss onto Sherlock's cheeks.  
“Come on then,” he said softly and walked backwards down the corridor with Sherlock in tow.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked my little take on this scene.  
> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
